


Surface Tension

by snowyfoxpaws



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Assassination, Cardverse, Love Confessions, M/M, Romance, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowyfoxpaws/pseuds/snowyfoxpaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Queen of Spades is in danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Main Story

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://snowyfoxpaws.tumblr.com/post/85814810087/surface-tension-1).

_"I don’t like you."_

That’s not…

That’s not what the King was supposed to say to his Queen…

_"I don’t like you at all."_

That’s not how it was supposed to work.

_"Get out of my sight."_

Alfred was supposed to love him, right? He loved Alfred, therefore Alfred should love him back, shouldn't he? After all they had been through together? They’d fought their first war to protect this kingdom and won it. Despite how obnoxious Alfred had been when Arthur had first met him, he’d shown a more valiant, mature side. He’d shown that he was, well and truly, the King of Spades.

And Arthur was his Queen.

The King and Queen were meant for each other. They always fell in love, didn't they? It was fantastic and romantic and everything Arthur had despised but months ago, yet now— now when he was finally coming to terms with it all being  _real—_ …

_"I don’t understand what you thought you’d gain from confessing to me like this."_

Arthur didn't understand. He couldn't comprehend it all. The words echoed in his head on loop. Every single syllable that had parted from those royal lips felt like anchors, tugging Arthur’s heart into a sinking mass. He was drowning.

The King was supposed to love his Queen.

 _"Why would you think that I would love someone like you?"_  
  
No. No, no, no,  _no_ …

Arthur was shaking. It was all memory and image and illusion but he was trembling and he stared down at the water below, unseeing. It hurt. It seared him. He felt hot and cold and hot and pain, pain, a surge and fall and crash of  _hurt_. His heart was beating in his chest at a frantic jump but it felt like he was being stabbed.

Why had those blue eyes been  _so cold—_?

Alfred had been shy and awkward and annoying and then, as he settled into the role of a King in the midst of war, formidable and powerful and so divinely clever…

The King of Spades was truly a force to be reckoned with.

And the Queen of Spades was not befitting of him.

That was all there was to it, right? Alfred did not love him—did not care for him—and, as that realization pooled in Arthur, he felt a strange feeling of resignation.

If Alfred did not love him, then Arthur would simply have to let a Queen he could love take his place.

And so, still dressed in his immaculate suit, the Queen of Spades let his body fall forward into the lake, his feet leaving the wooden dock as he hit the royal waters with a splash. Instantly his clothing was soaked through, weighted and heavy, and he gasped as terror seized him, sudden and jarring, just as his head slipped beneath the surface.

The daze fell away like a veil.

The illusion broke. The spell shattered. He could see again.

The dream that had taken hold of him—that had led him here—dissolved, taking the Alfred that had rejected him along with it. He jerked and tried to fight for the surface as a terrible realization dawned on him.

This wasn’t a suicide.

This was an assassination.

 

 

_"Dear King of Spades,"_

Alfred stared down at the note in his hand.

It was a simple piece of parchment, high quality with an elegant black scrawl. Arthur’s penmanship was immaculate, as always, each curve and weave of his quill pronounced and with purpose. Such was befitting of a noble, raised with the highest of education. It was a skill that Alfred normally found to be awe inducing but now…

Now it was…

_"I apologize for my earlier transgression. It was not my intention to cause you any unnecessary stress. Please accept that I will not try such a thing again."_

He didn’t understand. Transgression? What was Arthur talking about. Last he had seen him was at dinner and it had been nice—  _quite nice_ , in fact. With peace settling over the kingdom, Alfred could turn his attentions back to other things.

Things like the way his Queen’s lips always quirked into a funny little smirk when Alfred said something that the man had found funny. Or the way that lately Arthur had taken to pressing the flat of his palm to the King’s back when he grew impatient and wanted to urge him forward.

Or the way he looked so very beautiful even while doing something as common as falling asleep in his chair with a book against his chest…

And yet what was this transgression?

_"You deserve a Queen more suited for you."_

What.

_"You deserve someone you can love."_

What?

_"Far be it for me to question fate."_

There were mottled marks on the page. Some of the ink was smudged. Water? Tears? Had Arthur been crying?

_"I do so hope that you find such a person soon. I want nothing more than for you to be happy."_

Wait—

No. No this wasn’t—

It couldn’t be, right?

There’s no way Arthur would be—

_"Please do not mourn me."_

No. Why—

No. No. This couldn’t be happening, right? This was a mistake. A joke.

_"I’m sorry."_

Alfred’s heart jerked and he gasped, wide-eyed, and clutched a hand to his chest.

_"I love you."_

The paper fluttered to the ground, forgotten. This pain wasn’t just emotional hurt, this was—

Arthur was in danger.

His heart was beating, rapid and angry in his chest, his body twitching with power and warning. The bond between them was being severed— he could feel it, sharp and cold as it twisted, taut and ready to snap.

_"Sincerely,_

_The former Queen of Spades”_

He screamed.

And time stopped.

 

 

Time was still.

Everything was frozen, the only sound in Alfred’s ears that of his own breathing.

The world was in a place of delicate, crystalline stagnancy and, as the King of Spades moved through it, he felt as though he were swimming. There was a muffled vibration from his own motions and then nothingness. He was all that truly existed in this moment, power crackling in his blood like gears and electricity. The only cog clicking with life in the maw of a great machine.

And yet he knew exactly where he needed to go.

It was a pull— _a tug_ —and it originated in his chest, a knotted and gnarled mass of pain. It led him and he followed, a feeling of agony permeating him like a burn. He didn’t know what to think— he  _couldn’t_  think.

…  _Arthur needed him_.

That was it. That was the only thing that  _was_. It radiated throughout him like a hum—sharp and alarming—and he ran after it, feeling wild as a primal terror gripped him.

 _Here_.

He met the lake’s edge, but his gaze fell to the dock— ripples in the water, like ice. Feet came down hard on the wooden planks as he crossed that short distance.

And into the expanse he lunged.

It didn’t feel right—it didn’t feel liquid—but he cared not to dwell on it, instead opening his eyes in the mass and searching—  _searching_ —

_There._

The image before him burned itself into his mind as horror clawed through him and he jerked forward after it, Arthur’s body suspended in the still water, his eyes closed and form limp. There were no bubbles lingering around him despite the fact that his mouth was parted. His back was arched only just, weighted coat flared around him. He looked a thing of haunting beauty, but Alfred wanted to end it.

He wanted to tear his Queen free from that visage of divinity.

His arms came to wrap around Arthur all too soon and he dragged him back up, up,  _up_ — the murky blue giving way to the dark night as they broke the surface, the moon hanging low amongst the stars and spreading over them a blanket of soft, dull light.

Now, on the shore, time started to resume— slow at first, but quicker still, until he could say with the utmost certainty that the body resting on the soft grass was, in fact, not breathing.

There was no pulse.

Arthur was still and Alfred stared, hunched over him, wishing that time would continue. Why might it have begun again for the world around them, but not for the one for whom it mattered most?

"Arthur—?" His voice was a gasp, water dripping off of the both of them. Droplets from Alfred’s bangs would bead and spill down the Queen’s cheek, like tears. "Arthur, stop this."

He gripped that royal coat in his hands, kissing him, but those cold lips did not move to return his warmth as he had always dreamed that they might. He pulled the figure back to look at it again, his arm crooked under Arthur’s neck to keep him upright.

Power and energy swam around them and he felt a man possessed. The Queen of Spades was not to die here and that was a command from the highest of powers—

The King who ruled over him.

A glow fell from him washing away the minutes as the body in his arms fell back through time, pallor warming.

And then a choked, wet cough as Arthur lurched to life in his hands, hacking and choking as Alfred turned him over to exhale the lake water onto the grass, the King’s hands trembling as he gripped him.

Everything was Arthur.

His life—  _his brightness_ —

The world was just, for the moment, nothing but his beloved.

And, when those brilliant green eyes turned to him, he was so happy to see them again that he almost didn’t recognize the way they twisted from relief…

… into horror.

Delicate lips parted, sudden—  _frantic_ —

A shadow fell over the two of them.

"A- Alfred— behind you—!"

 

 

The figure was cloaked in darkness, but that didn’t stop Arthur from lunging forward to protect his King, the sword coming down upon his back from the smooth arc it had been swung in.

It hurt—

Oh,  _Spades_ , did it ever hurt—

Yet that mattered not as that blade had been meant for Alfred’s neck. They toppled back in a heap, the King yelping his name, but there was no time to sit and lick one’s wounds. He had not been raised to fight only to shirk that duty in the face of a single flesh wound.

The figure was not to be deterred and the silver gleam of metal came at them again, this time wild and furious, but a murmur from Arthur’s lips erected a magical barrier just in time to send the sword crashing back, its owner set off balance as the protective wall shattered into dust.

"Arthur, don’t strain yourself—," Alfred told him, setting him back on the ground. Petulant, the Queen nearly yelled at him, but Alfred, thankfully, had a short sword half-concealed in his regal garb and he drew it, leveling it at the stranger with the broad sword.

Arthur could taste magic in the air. The familiar tang of coolness, like water droplets, that always accompanied his King’s specific brand of energy. It was the comfort of a library settled in the hollow echo of a ticking clock and it radiated off of the King in waves.

He realized, suddenly, that Alfred was positively  _livid_.

No words were exchanged before blades crashed, the King and killer darting in and out like snakes, and Arthur could only watch, painfully aware of the warmer wetness on his back and the gentle throb of agony that ran its length.

Yet he was alive and, as long as Arthur watched this fight closely, prepared to intervene at a moment’s notice, Alfred would stay alive too.

Luckily for them, that wasn’t necessary. The King maneuvered forward just as the assassin’s foot slipped and a thrust aimed for his side was suddenly struck through the assailant’s throat. The blow surprised the man, naturally, so the follow up was not to be dodged—

The assassin’s head was cut clean from his body.

Arthur looked away, having never been one for gore, but he could hear Alfred’s heavy breathing in quiet night air, not another living creature daring to make a sound in the King’s presence. He cautiously spared him a glance, wincing at the blood splattered along his clothing that wasn’t his own.

And then those fire blues were suddenly upon him as Alfred strode forward, sword dropped to the ground as the King very nearly fell to his knees. And then Arthur’s shoulders were gripped tight as his husband looked at him—really  _looked_  at him—concern open and heavy in his face.

"Arthur…"

His name sounded so soft and vulnerable on that tongue.

“ _Why did you_ …”

The Queen returned the unwavering stare, searching for more to the question. And then it occurred to him and his gaze sharpened. “He had aimed for your neck. I couldn’t just—,”

“ _No_ —!” Alfred cut him off and Arthur jerked back slightly, surprised at the sudden outburst. “Why would you…” His voice cracked and the Queen suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that he was near tears. “Why would you try to  _kill_  yourself—?”

Understanding lit across his face and, for a moment, he couldn’t even react as those now wet eyes bore into him,  _hurting_. “Alfred, no, I—,”

The King was hanging onto his every word now, desperate for an explanation.

"It was— It was part of the attempt to kill us, Alfred. I didn’t— I was charmed and—,"

That beautiful, sharp face eased into relief and confusion. “It was in your handwriting…” He said softly, as though that were the most important detail of it all.

Arthur inhaled a small breath, leaning forward despite the pain to place a kiss against his cheek. “Never— I would  _never_  choose to leave you like that. I’m so sorry— so,  _so_  sorry…”

"What happened?"

"I was charmed, I—," Arthur hesitated and Alfred caught that immediately, eyes demanding he continue. "I thought— I mean…" His face was heating up now. "Er, it’s just that I, um…" He swallowed. "They made me believe that you, ah… you…" Looking back, he bit his lip momentarily, "They made me believe that you had _rejected_  my… my feelings for you.”

Bright blue widened, “Feelings? Arthur, you mean—,”

"Yes." Arthur cut him off. He could feel his face warming more now, like a fever, and he looked away. "Yes, that… I—…" And then, after a moment, he settled on: "Yes."

A warm hand cupped his cheek. “I love you.”

The Queen’s gaze jerked back to his King, shock rippling through him. Albeit he hadn’t been sure before if his feelings were reciprocated, to suddenly receive such a bold declaration was—!

And yet those eyes were warm and earnest now and he fell into them instantly.

"I…" His lips twitched with the word, so fragile and soft as its fellows soon joined it: "love you too…"

Alfred exhaled an emotion of sorts—relief, perhaps—and pulled him into a kiss.

It was warm and cold and damp and awkward and sweet and their tongues mingled for only a few, short seconds, the chasteness of the gesture falling away with a moment’s desperate urge, and then they parted.

They were quiet and then both made a sound like a sigh or a laugh and that only spurred them on further as they dropped into a small fit of adrenaline-fueled chuckles, maybe giggles, the darkness reverberating with the sound of their happiness.

Alfred moved to stand, not even bothering to ask as he helped Arthur up, pulling the smaller man so that he were leaning against him. “Let’s get you back and cleaned up.” He said, the words making Arthur’s wound ache as though in response. “You’ve had a long night.”

"So have you." The Queen pointed out, indulging in the warmth that was Alfred’s body.

"I’m not injured." The man quipped, a note of regret to his voice as though he wish he were in Arthur’s stead.

"Your  _body_ , no…” Arthur said, words soft. “But your heart has been through so much.” He tilted his head against the King’s collarbone, glancing up at him sideways.

Alfred’s expression flickered from thoughtful to accepting. “Perhaps.” He admitted.

The Queen smiled up at his King, catching the other’s curious glance. “Let us spend tonight together. We’ll mend each other.” Arthur murmured quietly— words for just the two of them.

Alfred’s gaze was tender as he said, “Yes. Let’s.”

 

 

_End_


	2. Epilogue

There was something extremely intimate about being at one’s bedside.

Despite Arthur’s claims that Alfred’s emotional injuries were just as severe as his own physical ones, the King knew his Queen was merely putting up something of a front. Not only had the man nearly drowned, but then, subsequently, he had called upon his magic and used his own body as a shield for Alfred’s. It was more than understandable that after all of that he’d be a little tired.

If not completely out of commission.

A medic had been called, the Jack had given them a good wringing about not calling for help, and guards had been dispersed to bring in the body of the assassin only to come back with the news that it had disappeared.

Yet none of this concerned Alfred all that much as he watched the doctor strip back Arthur’s damaged clothing, holding his Queen’s hand as the wound was washed and stitched despite how the injured man claimed he didn’t need the aid. 

He never pushed Alfred’s hand away, after all.

Things settled after that, as well as they could. The Queen was told to take it easy and, to his credit, he did, but that didn’t stop Alfred from doting on him slightly, much to Arthur’s obvious annoyance. Nonetheless, it felt good— a distinctly better way of life than things had been before. Although the assassination attempt was something that the King would never wish to repeat, the outcome was nonetheless something that he never wished to take back.

Not now. Not when his Queen was curled up against his chest in bed, reading a book. It was an innocent position, honestly. They were both clothed in pajamas, having only just begun to sleep in the same room together recently, and Arthur’s sutures had been bothering him from where he had been reclined back onto his own set of pillows so Alfred had tugged him over to use his chest as a back rest to which the Queen sheepishly claimed that, indeed, that felt much better.

Things were progressing. After months and months of stagnation, they were finally getting somewhere.

And then, but a month later, everything culminated into something raw and real and  _tangible_.

Alfred had walked in on Arthur changing into his nightclothes, the noble, for once, not shielded behind the safety of the dressing screen. They had stared at each other for a long moment, but then the spell was broken as the King strode forward just as the Queen started to scramble for his modesty.

Yet he gave in as Alfred caught his hand, letting the clothing slip from his fingers and onto the floor. He wasn’t nude or anything of that nature— no, he had on his person a small pair of thin cloth shorts meant for wear under his pajamas, but the rest of him was open and exposed and Alfred found himself mesmerized by smooth swaths of pale skin.

"You’re  _beautiful_.” He said, honest and earnest, not surprised in the least when Arthur turned his head away with a flush.

"Idiot…" The Queen mumbled, but he didn’t pull away. No, as the King moved forward so did he, that smaller body now leaning against his own.

Alfred ran his fingers along the length of Arthur’s back, careful not to agitate the wound. It was still a raw and angry red, but it was healing. The elegant mark of spades that rested between his shoulder blades was unharmed, as dark and lovely as the day he had first seen it— the day they had first met, when Arthur had proven himself his Queen by displaying his back.

"You are though." The King said. "Beautiful, I mean. Gorgeous, even…"

The Queen exhaled a breathy laugh.

Alfred let his hands travel across the smooth, unmarred skin… and then they lightly traced the edge of the wound, eliciting a soft gasp. The King felt a possessive emotion wash over him as he held his Queen closer to his chest. He’d be damned if he let another soul ever hurt this man in such a way ever again.

Arthur was quiet in the embrace, but when he looked up there was uncertainty dancing in his eyes. “What are you…?”

The King gently tugged his wrist towards the bed, leading him, and the Queen was quiet as he was gestured to lie on the soft mattress with him. It wasn’t a tumble or a sprawl, but more a gentle nestling of bodies against one another, their feet hanging just off the edge.

It was difficult to resist, so Alfred didn’t. He kissed his Queen, lips pressing together softly for a long moment before he kissed his jaw and then his neck and then his ear and then his shoulder, arms firmly wrapped around him even as Arthur shifted and sighed.

"We never had time before, but now…" The King murmured.

The Queen looked up at him, seemingly entranced. “What is it that you wish to do—?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Alfred smiled at that, leaning in to brush his lips against the man’s cheek. “Make love to you.” He admitted to his Queen’s temple, soft bangs tickling his nose.

The noise Arthur made at that was something between a gasp and a sigh and when Alfred pulled back he could see the man flushing red. “If that is what you wish…”

The King smiled at him. “Do you have any objections to it?”

Those dark eyelashes fluttered momentarily, illuminating bright green eyes. “Of course not.” He replied, a coy smile on his lips.

Alfred kissed him, unable to help but meet him for that delightful press of warmth, and Arthur melted into it, this time the act more sensual and inviting. Lips turned to tongue and hot mouth as they shifted on the downy bedding, the King shedding his coat and running his hands down Arthur’s back again until it came to rest at the curve of his ass, fingers kneading slightly and making the Queen squirm.

They hadn’t done anything like this before— neither of them had. And it was said that this act was suppose to revitalize them and to energize them in times of stress and wear. It was meant to solidify their bond, making it stronger—

Making  _them_  stronger.

Alfred took his time exploring the porcelain expanse of Arthur’s skin, peppering kisses along his chest and letting hands roam hairless thighs. He was absolutely stunning—glowing, rather—illuminated by the dim lighting of lanterns and candles that had yet to be put out for the night. And as the King continued his ministrations, that noble breathing turning into a soft pant as a bead of something wet soaked through the white of his shorts, a thick, hardened length quite visible despite the obstruction.

Shedding his own clothing, Alfred was aware of the emeralds that watched him, eyes roaming his body equally as article by article was discarded. Yet he went the extra distance and before too long he was left completely nude.

The Queen made a noise in his throat when the King’s length was freed, although Alfred wasn’t sure what to make of the soft inhale that sounded half-dreamy. Still, that didn’t prevent him from leveling his partner with a knowing look, only to have Arthur flush and look away with embarrassment. The smaller man’s words were soft as he said, “There’s a bottle of lube in the bedside drawer.”

"Oh?" The King chuckled lightly as he reached over and looked only to find that, yes, there was indeed a little glass bottle settled upright in the corner nearest them. He extracted it, amused by the fact that the lid was shaped like their national symbol. "How long has this been here?"

Arthur fidgeted slightly, looking up at the flickering of light on the ceiling. “I had a vision in the gardens. I knew this would happen soon.”

Of course. The Queen always seemed to be one step ahead of him— knowing what Alfred would do before even he, himself, did. Rolling back beside him, he tweaked one of the lithe man’s nipples between his fingers and watched him make a face and gasp. “Shall we—?”

The Queen’s face was quickly growing scarlet but he nodded, looking almost anticipatory as deft fingers worked the cloth shorts off, Arthur revealing himself to his King.

The pale flesh of arousal, coaxed red from their efforts, greeted him and he found himself unable to hold back from palming his hand around it. Arthur hissed and arched and he looked at him, intrigued. “Sensitive?” He asked, because of course it was.

A pink tongue darted out to wet the Queen’s lips and it was clear on his face that holding a conversation with the King’s hand wrapped around his cock was a strangeness that he wasn’t anywhere near ready for. “I- I do not— I haven’t touched myself since we’ve been married. It would be inappropriate to—,”

Oh sweet saints above, this poor creature. Alfred cut him off with a kiss, stroking him even as Arthur arched and mewled into it. The King suddenly had to wonder how much of this man’s tension was truly his own and not just sexual. Having been born into nobility, this was likely one of those little silly things that he had been told under the guise of it being  _etiquette_ …

Yet now Alfred would take great pleasure in working him until he was completely undone.

When they broke apart there was a fogged look in his Queen’s eyes—a murky haze of shadow that he could only pin as being lust. He was panting, a flush of arousal skittered across his face and along his neck and ears, and Alfred’s own need suddenly crashed down on him as he shifted them further onto the bed, feet no longer dangling as he nestled his beloved against the soft expanse of pillows before taking position between his legs.

Arthur was looking up at him, eyes wide and eager and a only the smallest of trembles in his hands that bespoke of nervousness. True, Alfred didn’t know what he was doing either, but he had been educated in this subject and he knew, roughly, what he was  _supposed_  to do. Hopefully it would be good. Hopefully he could  _make_  it good.

He opened the bottle, those green eyes trained on him as he dipped his fingers into it. The digits came back coated in a thick, viscous fluid and he ran it between them, surprised but intrigued momentarily. It didn’t take him very long to find the Queen’s entrance, those slim legs parted neatly for him as he took to exploring this part of him as well. When he did locate it, he hesitated before prodding at it, watching with fascination as Arthur tensed slightly, eyes shutting as though he couldn’t bare to be watched.

And then one long finger slid in, in,  _in_  and Alfred felt his brow furrow at how very  _tight_  it was.

Yet that was nothing in the face of the soft moan that fell from the Queen’s lips with the gentleness of soft rain on a rooftop. His shoulders were twitching slightly, one eye peering out at him between dark lashes.

"Does that feel good?" Alfred asked, experimentally sliding the finger out until only the tip was left before pressing it in again. The muffled groan he received for that one verified that, yes, it must have been.

Arthur gasped slightly as the King stroked his insides, mapping him. “I- it’s  _odd_ —,” He managed, gasping. “I don’t think it— it’s  _supposed_  to normally feel  _this good_  but it,  _ah_ —,” He inhaled sharply but continued, determined to finish, “it feels  _amazing_ , really. Even just that much. It burns in my chest.”

"Could it be our magic…?" Alfred murmured, jerking the finger in and out more eagerly now, relieved when the ring of muscle started to loosen slightly from its tense grip around him. He dared to add a second finger, pressing both in as far as they could go.

"I think s- so—  _aahh_ —,” The sudden, loud moan caught the King off guard and he blinked, arching back his fingers again to press at that inner softness. “ _Ohhh_ , A- Alfred t- that’s—  _ngh—_ …”

He’d read about this too. Alfred grinned, mercilessly brushing his fingers along that inner wall until the liquid beading at the tip of Arthur’s length was dripping down in a translucent string.

"P-  _please_ —!” The Queen begged, back arching. “I n- need more— you, just— it burns…” He gasped, sounding teary. “I’m aching.”

"Should I add another finger?" He asked, teasingly, running the two already embedded in him over his sensitives walls.

Arthur shook his head, to Alfred’s surprise, and gasped, “I want  _you_  inside of me…”

"You’re not ready."

"I don’t care!" The outburst was loud, yet desperate in a way the King had never heard before. He stared at his Queen, thoroughly shocked. "I don’t care—  _I told you what I wanted_ —!” Arthur said, looking up at him with eyes that were almost glowing. “Now it is up to you whether or not you give it to me.”

Alfred exhaled a laugh, gentle yet firm in the relative silence of their bedchamber. His fingers slid free of Arthur’s hole as he said, “As you command, my Queen.”

He ignored the exasperated noise Arthur made at him, instead focused on taking a generous amount of lubricant and running it along his own erection. He clenched his jaw at the sudden cool feeling, but anticipation ate away anything that might have brought his arousal down so instead the entirety of it felt like a burn. He stroked himself a few times, making sure he was thoroughly slicked up, a soft gasp on his lips at the action, but when he opened his eyes—when had they shut, exactly?—he nearly laughed at the greedy look of hunger on his Queen’s face. “Ready?” He said, moving forward, his hands drawing Arthur’s thighs apart as he lowered himself into what felt like the correct position.

The Queen had to release the lip he was gently biting to say, “Y- yes.  _Please_.”

The King needed no further invitation.

He pushed in, slow at first, the muscle barely giving way for him as Arthur made a keening whine and lulled his head back. In, in,  _further still_ , the stretch around him so tight he was afraid he would very nearly break the man. Yet at every moment of hesitation the Queen would urge him to hurry up and so Alfred pressed in at a fairly quick pace until, finally, he was sheathed to the hilt.

And dear gods above did Arthur feel  _divine_. It was a surge of pressure and heat and wet and it made his skin break out in a cool sweat as he tried to keep his mind from getting lost in erratic sensation.

And then he felt it— _a burn_ —the tug coming from his chest. It was warm and gentle and yet, at the same time, clawing and desperate. It made him feel half-mad, panting, a sort of frenzy gripping him as his fingers dug into the softness of Arthur’s thighs. So  _this_  was what was trying to bridge them together? This— this feeling of heat and energy and fullness. It was overwhelming and suddenly he was moving without realizing it, rocking his hips into his Queen with a languid roll as they situated themselves, Arthur looking just as lost as he felt as the smaller body beneath his arched, hands digging into the covers of the bed as he moaned.

Everything seemed to spiral after that into motion and flesh and feeling, slick against slick and the sound of wet slaps in the silent air. A sudden jerk forward and Arthur was very nearly screaming, his voice a volume typically only reserved for yelling at the unruly mages’ guard. It was enticing, capturing his attention more than any spell ever could, and they moved together, a sweaty and damp twist of bodies, each of them utilizing untrained and shaking muscles, too enamored to care about the soreness they would surely suffer in the morning.

"T- touch me—!" The Queen suddenly gasped, tears running down the sides of his face. " _Please_ , I—  _ahh_ —,”

He was cut off as Alfred did just as he was bid, the King’s hand grasping him clumsily and stroking him. That was really all it took as the Queen bucked up into him only to come down onto his thrust, the double assault of feeling driving him over the edge quickly as he came. And then Alfred did take pause, memorizing Arthur’s gasping face, sweaty and deeply red, as he moaned, white, pearly fluids spurting onto the King’s fingers as he continued to drive him forward—making it as good as he could.

"F-  _fuck_ —,” Alfred groaned as Arthur fell limp, “you’re gorgeous— beautiful—,” He thrust into the now sated body, the Queen jerking and mewling at the friction.

Arthur had the gall to laugh at him, voice low and soft as he said, “Y- you keep  _saying_  that—,”

"And it keeps being _true_.” And with that no more words were shared as Alfred arched forward and Arthur leaned in for the kiss.

It took only but a minute more, yet then the King was coming and he broke away from his Queen’s lips with a groan as he lost himself in that heat, hips jerking a few times before he just pressed  _in_ , trying to savor as much of that heat as he could before it was over.

Things started to slow down, but the sleepy, satisfied feeling lingered between them as Alfred finally pulled out and collapsed at his Queen’s side, dragging that body to nestle against him as they sunk into the luxurious bedding that grew quickly sullied with their fluids. Arthur sighed and nuzzled his collarbone, contented. Alfred didn’t have to wonder if he, too, felt the incredibly sensation of unity at that moment because he  _knew_  he did. They felt like one entity, even now, a magic they couldn’t control binding them in a way they had never quite known before.

Resting his cheek against his beloved’s hair, he ran his fingers along the Queen’s side as he pressed a chaste kiss to those soft locks of soft amber. “I love you.” He said.

It was the second time he had ever said it and Arthur tensed slightly, most likely recalling the first. Then he relaxed again, voice gentle as he said, “I love you too.”

Tugging him closer, the King pressed up against him, savoring the heat of their bare bodies against one another. He needn’t say a thing— Arthur already knew. They could have lost each other back then, but they didn’t. The wound that would surely scar the Queen’s back was healing, but the memories would never fade.

It was all they could do to grasp each other here, now, in this moment, with the hope that nothing should ever come between them like that again.


End file.
